


Bedrock

by sanguinity



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Episode: s02e10 Tremors, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 06:51:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/pseuds/sanguinity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When earthquake strikes, people pull together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedrock

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for 2x10, "Tremors."
> 
> Thanks to amindamazed and grrlpup.

**Day Zero**

With a murmured apology to Andre, Joan thumbed _accept_ , trying to remember what she had stood Emily up for. "Emily? I'm so sorry, something's—" 

"Joan!" The relief in Emily's voice was palpable. "Are you okay?" 

Joan frowned, looking around the emergency waiting room. "I... yes." 

"I just got word of an officer-involved shooting, with a mention of 'NYPD consultants.' Tell me that wasn't you." 

"No, it was Detective Bell." Andre's eyes flicked up to her, and Joan shook her head at him. His gaze returned to the potted palm across the room, and Joan stepped away so as not to disturb him further. Gregson's eyes tracked her as she went. 

"That's the detective you usually work with, isn't it? It _is_ you two in this press brief? You were there?" 

"Look, Emily, I'm sorry, I'm not supposed to talk to the press, you'll have to call—" 

" _Joan._ " Emily's flair for dramatic disappointment pushed across the line at Joan, twenty years of practice at being her long-suffering best friend. Joan shut her eyes, sinking into the comfort of it. "I'm not 'the press,' I'm your best friend. How is he, Detective Bell?" 

Her eyes flickered guiltily to Andre. "Single GSW to the abdomen. We're still waiting to hear." 

"I'm coming straight over. Chandler Memorial, right? Is there anything you need? You or Sherlock?" 

"Sherlock isn't here." He had left just before Andre arrived. 

Emily hissed. "He's not—?" 

"No, no, he's fine," Joan hastened to reassure her. "We're both fine. He's just... not here." 

There was a dubious silence, then Emily asked, "Look, I'm catching a taxi now, is there anything you need me to do or bring on the way?" 

Joan shook her head. "No. You don't need to come, I'm fine." 

"Of course you are. I'll be there shortly. _Love you._ " 

It was the sign-off Emily reserved for when something in Joan's life—a relationship, a career—had just crashed around her ears. Joan blinked, looking to the doors leading to surgery. 

"Love you, too," Joan said, but Emily had already rung off. 

   

**Day One**

"Those aren't your clothes," Sherlock greeted her when she came in. 

"Emily's. The change she keeps in her desk, for when she has to work a story straight through." Joan dropped the shopping bag she was carrying, tugged off her boots, and sank into the library couch with a sigh. "She borrowed my clothes all through college; it's turnabout and fair play." 

"They don't suit you." Joan opened her eyes, incredulous, to look at Holmes. His mouth was turned down, as if she was betraying him by wearing clothes someone else had selected. 

She shut her eyes again. "Well, they suit me better than Marcus's blood." 

_Easing Marcus to the ground, the confused gasping look on his face, telling him that it would be okay, all right, look at me, everything will be fine, shrugging out of her coat and handing it to someone to place under his head, already snapping her nitrile gloves on, pulling his shirt open, it's okay, it's all right, palpating for an exit wound, direct pressure on the entry and two fingers on his racing pulse, just keep your eyes on me, I've got you Marcus—_

Nothing like another time she attempted to hold a man's blood inside his body. Nothing at all whatsoever, and thank all that was holy that it hadn't been arterial. "Andre didn't need to look at that any longer, it's good that Emily thought to bring them. Marcus is stable, by the way." 

"Of course," Sherlock agreed. "You wouldn't be here otherwise." 

"I very well might. He'll have a long recovery, and he'll need us more when he's awake than he does now. No point in burning out this early." Sherlock made a noncommittal noise. "Where did you go?" 

"Out. About. Around. There was nothing I could do there." 

She let it go, not wanting to get into it with him. "Have you talked to Alfredo?" Silence. "You should talk to Alfredo." His silence continued, and she nudged at the shopping bag with her toe. "Fine. If you're looking for a way to be useful, you can take those to the cleaners. I'm going to have a nap. Don't wake me unless it's a message from the hospital or the brownstone is on fire." 

She tilted over on the couch, pulling the afghan with her as she went. A moment later, she heard the bag rustle as he picked it up. 

"When I go back this evening, you're welcome to come with me," she offered. 

She heard him pause, then wood brushed against wood as he pulled the window shutters closed and walked quietly away. 

  

**Day Two**

"Joan!" She turned to find Gregson hustling down the hospital corridor toward her. "Do you know where Holmes has gotten to? He's not answering his cell." 

She resumed walking, making Gregson jog the last couple of steps. "No idea. We don't do two-hour check-ins anymore. You may have noticed." She hadn't seen Sherlock since she had left for the hospital yesterday evening, and she didn't care if Gregson knew she was pissed at her partner just now. 

"Right. Well, I need to speak to you, too. There's talk of having a formal hearing about you and Holmes. Holmes has ruffled enough feathers that they don't want to leave the investigation inside the Division." 

Joan stopped dead. "A formal hearing? But isn't this sort of thing usually investigated by—?" 

"By the Detectives Division, yeah." Gregson looked rueful. "I'd like to say that his closure rate—your closure rate—speaks for itself, but now with Bell..." 

"No. You can't possibly think? It's more than just our closure rate. How many innocent people have we cleared? And we're fast, hours mean everything to a kidnapping victim, you know that." 

He shook his head. "And what you don't know is how much time I spend running interference for you two. The whole department runs on politics—that's five-quarters of what my job _is_ —and don't be so naive as to think that having a high closure rate has to work in your favor." He paused, grim. "And Holmes, he has zero political capital." 

She drew back. Political _debt_ was what Sherlock had, if she had to characterize it. She had a sinking feeling at how fast Gregson might be burning through his own capital, if he was trying to cover Sherlock's debts. 

Gregson didn't quite thump a finger on her chest as he over-enunciated. "Have. Him. Call. Me. We three need to discuss strategy. Right now, I need to get back to the precinct." He backed down the hall, eyes still on her. "I hate to be a Cassandra, but it's raining, Joan." 

The words hung in the hallway, while he held her eyes. _Guys like him, they walk between the raindrops. They don't get wet, other people do._ Gregson nodded at her, and turned away. 

Joan shivered and touched the phone in her pocket—Sherlock had already ignored three texts today, he was unlikely to respond to a fourth—then went back to Marcus's room. 

  

**Day Three**

"Ms. Hudson?" Joan stood in the kitchen entrance, still bleary from sleep. "It's not your day to be here, is it?" 

"Joan!" Ms. Hudson swept forward and wrapped her in a lavish hug. Joan stiffened in surprise, but the circle of the taller woman's arms was warm and comforting and... Joan accepted the shelter for a moment. "There, it's been a difficult couple of days, I'm sure," Ms. Hudson soothed. 

She even moved to pet Joan's hair, which was—well, okay, _nice,_ Joan could bring herself to admit that—but also _too much,_ and so Joan pulled away again. "Are you cooking?" 

"Just a little something. How are you? I heard about your detective. It's such a shame. I only met him the once, but he was such a gentleman. How is he doing?" 

Joan had already had two days practice in summarizing Marcus's chart. "I don't have today's update yet, but he is as well as can be expected. They're holding off for another few days on the next surgery—no, no, don't worry, that's standard, it's a good thing, actually. Anything might happen, of course, but so far things look good. And he's young and healthy, which is always encouraging." 

Ms. Hudson nodded. "And you?" 

"Me?" Joan blinked. "I'm fine." Ms. Hudson's eyebrows went up. "No really, Sherlock and I are fine, there was only the one shot." 

"Joan. You had a gun pointed at you—" 

"At Sherlock. I barely even saw it, Sherlock jumped in front of me so fast." 

_And Marcus jumped in front of them both. Only to obstruct Dylan's line of sight, she was sure, to make Dylan hesitate, rather than any outright intent to take a bullet meant for them. But intent or no, Marcus had still moved toward the line of fire, had still risked his own body—_

Joan looked up, startled, when Ms. Hudson took her hand. She squeezed it gently. "Come, sit. The coffee's ready, and I can do you up a quick breakfast." 

"You don't have to, really. Cooking isn't part of the agreement." 

Ms. Hudson smiled serenely. "Are you suggesting you wouldn't do the same? Haven't done?" 

Joan glanced away, but smiled. "Well, it's very kind, thank you." 

"And would that there was more kindness in the world." She took up a pair of hot pads, and withdrew two casserole dishes from the oven. "We'll just let those cool while you eat. You're going to the hospital later? Good. One is for you and Sherlock—I'm sure you two are run ragged with everything going on, and don't need to be thinking about cooking on top of it—and one is for Detective Bell's family, because they can't be doing any better." She paused, suddenly concerned. "He does have family?" 

"A brother. Andre's been spending as much time at the hospital as he can, but it's tough, he isn't eligible for family leave. First thing Marcus did, waking up, was threaten to kill Andre if he loses his job over this; it's not exactly easy to find employment as—" Joan caught herself. "Well. It's not exactly easy to find employment." Joan got up from the table, hands still wrapped around her coffee cup, to get a better look at the dishes. Both were topped with tater-tots and cheese: a hot-dish of some sort, like she used to read about in books. They smelled delicious, although it might be too much dairy for her stomach. "This is very thoughtful." 

"It's nothing fancy. It was comfort-food when I was growing up, and sometimes that's what one needs. Even if it's someone else's comfort-food." She smiled wistfully, and Joan caught the glimmer of sudden tears. "You do your best, you know." 

Joan wrapped an arm around her waist in a hug. "And your best is lovely, always has been." 

"You don't have to mention me if it's awkward, I only met him the once." 

Joan stretched up to kiss Ms. Hudson's cheek. _Too forward_ her mind warned, but also, because it was Ms. Hudson, _nice_. "Nonsense. He'll be touched to know you were thinking of him. And you're always worth mentioning." 

  

**Day Four**

A middle-school boy and his mother were just leaving Marcus's room when Joan arrived. The boy's eyes were huge and worried, and his mother had a protective arm around his shoulder. Joan smiled a greeting as she passed them; the mother returned a brief smile, but most of her attention was on her son. Joan felt bad for the kid; Marcus was still fairly heavily drugged, and it couldn't be very reassuring for the kid to see him so. 

The teddy bear in bed with Marcus gave Joan a moment's pause, and she didn't bother suppressing her sudden grin. "Was that your nephew?" 

The drugs and exhaustion couldn't quite sap the fondness in Marcus's smile. "He's my Little." At Joan's questioning look, he clarified, "Big Brothers, Big Sisters? I'm his Big, he's my Little. Trey. He's a good kid." 

"I didn't know you were a Big Brother." Joan put her bouquet of carnations on the table by the window. They were a ridiculous multi-colored dye job, much more appropriate than the white ones that her florist had automatically pulled for her when she first walked in. 

"You mostly only see me with Holmes, and he's not the most sociable type, is he?" He glanced at the door. "He's still avoiding me, I take it." 

Joan grimaced. She had offered, again, to bring Sherlock—sometimes it helped to tag along on someone else's coattails—but he had ignored her, continuing to whale on his singlestick dummy. It had become impossible to excuse Sherlock's continued absence, and she didn't try. 

"Tell him to get his ass down here. I didn't get shot for _my_ health." 

She bit her tongue; Marcus didn't need to hear her frustration with Sherlock. "I'll tell him." She pulled his chart and scanned the page. "Surgery tomorrow?" 

Marcus sighed. "So they say." 

"That's good. They might even close you up this time. That lovely skin of yours used to do such a good job of keeping all your parts inside." 

Marcus's mouth twitched. "It's not nice to make me laugh. The drugs aren't _that_ good." 

She sobered. "Just so you know, the hearing starts tomorrow, so I won't be able to see you before you go in, but I'll stop by after if I can, okay?" 

Marcus nodded acknowledgement. "I appreciate all the time you've spent here." 

"Well, it's easy, I don't have a day job. So what shall we do? I've got the latest Evanovich, a deck of cards. Think you can rub two thoughts together long enough to handle a rousing game of Old Maid?" 

"You're the old maid." 

" _You're_ the old maid," she returned. "Or we can see who can come up with the most gawdawful name for that bear. You should have the advantage there, you're on drugs." 

He put a protective arm around the plush animal. "Don't knock the bear. He's my main man. He's still going to be here when all you lot take off tonight." 

She pulled the book from the bag. "Evanovich it is, then. And I've got it on mp3 for you, too, for after 'all us lot' take off tonight." 

  

**The Eve of Day Five**

The cafe had been Joan's usual when she had business at Chandler. It was quiet just now, business winding down for the night. "Whatever happens tomorrow, Joan, whatever they say about you in that courtroom, I want you to remember—" 

"Ma." 

Mary Watson gave her a daughter a stern look. "No, you listen carefully to me, Joan Watson. I want you to remember: you're my daughter, you were a good surgeon, and you are a good detective. Whatever they say about you—whatever they _said_ about you—you're careful, you're meticulous, you're thorough, and you saved lives. You still do. I read the papers, and I know what's true." 

Joan looked down and swallowed against the pressure in her throat. 

Mary's voice softened. "I can still be there tomorrow. Just say the word and I'll be there." 

"I know. But honestly, it's not a trial. It's just a hearing." 

Her mother made a dubious noise. "It'll be in a courtroom? With a judge? A witness box? Lawyers?" 

Joan nodded. When the silence continued, she looked up. Her mother was watching her with concern. "No jury, though," Joan offered. "That'll be different. Better." 

"They'll try to go after him through you. You remember what I told you." 

"I will." Mary waited, and Joan rolled her eyes. "I'm thorough, I'm meticulous, I was a good surgeon, and I'm a good detective," she recited. 

"And you're my daughter," Mary prompted. 

Joan's teacup suddenly went blurry, and she blinked hard. Mary waited. 

"And I'm your daughter." 

Mary nodded in satisfaction. "That's right." 

They sat in silence, both sipping their tea. 

"I'm expecting a call when you're done tomorrow. Even if you don't want me there, I won't have you going it alone." 

"I won't be alone. I told you, I have a partner now. The hearing is about both of us, not just me." 

Mary merely looked her reproach at Joan. Joan smiled wistfully into her teacup. Teach her to try to fool her mother. "Yes, Ma, I promise. I'll call you as soon as we're done tomorrow. Whatever happens, I'll call."

**Author's Note:**

> Hat tip to capitalnineteen for [the teddy bear headcanon](http://capitalnineteen.tumblr.com/post/69337746578/beanarie-in-our-second-installment-of-show-me).
> 
> DVD Commentary: ["And you're my daughter."](http://sanguinarysanguinity.tumblr.com/post/72572020729/joan-nodded-when-the-silence-continued-she) (And [continued](http://sanguinarysanguinity.tumblr.com/post/72580564605/amindamazed-replied-to-your-post-and-youre-my).)


End file.
